


everybody does gospel now

by psocoptera



Category: Left Behind - Jerry B. Jenkins & Tim LaHaye, Popslash
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Early Work, M/M, The Rapture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-18
Updated: 2003-05-18
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2022534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psocoptera/pseuds/psocoptera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bitter waters.</p>
<p>(This more or less places NSYNC in the world of the <i>Left Behind</i> books.  I don't think that's a very nice world.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	everybody does gospel now

I. Briahna vanishes off Lance's knee, and later he'll wonder if he could have held on tighter and gone too. But now he can only clutch the air dumbly. Joey is right there, so Lance doesn't have to find his voice to call him, doesn't have to try to find words to explain to Joey that he somehow went and lost his baby girl between breaths. He doesn't have to find words like "I'm not kidding", or "what do you mean, careful, I didn't, she was -"; Joey is right there and Briahna is just suddenly not. All they can do is gape at each other and at the empty air.

_In a second,_ Lance thinks, _we're going to panic,_ and for once he can't think of anything better to do. Joey's breathing speeds up: _here we go,_ Lance thinks, and then they hear the sirens. 

It's a cold, foggy day in New York, the kind of day sound rolls down the length of Manhattan. Even through the window the screeches and crashes carry up to them; it's a wash of noise, sirens and screaming and church bells. 

"Turn on the radio," Lance says, but by then he knows. 

II. "Please," JC says, and "Oh, God." He tastes the space between Lance's shoulderblades, the hollow of his back, the curve of his spine. JC moves deliberately, like they're filming a video. Lance twists around and catches the rim of JC's ear in his lips, licks carefully across his collarbone and down his sternum. JC's eyes are closed and his lips make tiny movements like he's memorizing lyrics. 

It had been intimidating, a memory good enough to last forever, until Lance remembered that by the time forever got there JC wouldn't want to remember any more. But he still tries to make it everything. He wraps his hand around JC's ankle and tries to make it every hand, and here, JC's hand on his waist, is every waist. 

On his knees, pressing himself back against JC, he feels a warm spatter on the back of his neck and thinks for a moment that JC's come already. He turns, looks back, up, and JC's tears fall into his face before he collapses onto him heavily. He coughs a little, chokes. "I'm so scared," he whispers. "I just... the pain, you know? Scorpions, and, the blood. All the blood. I don't. I can't." 

Lance squirms under JC's weight until he can roll over enough to put his arms around JC. "Sshh," he says. "I know. JC, love, I know. It's okay. It's... I'm glad, for you. I wouldn't... this... " 

"Last Supper," JC says, and chuckles a little. Lance leans up and starts kissing him again. 

When they're finally done, JC shakes off Lance's hand and sits up in bed, eyes shut. The lights are still on - JC had wanted the lights on - and he looks to Lance like a girl folding up her prom dress might. Occasionally he brushes his fingertips somewhere Lance had touched - his lips, his stomach, his cock. Finally he nods to himself silently. He gets up, still naked, and pads down to the living room. Lance follows quietly, just a witness now. JC sinks to his knees where he had knelt earlier tracing the muscles of Lance's stomach in kisses. "I'm sorry," he says, "I'm sorry," and Lance already can't tell who he's talking to. 

III. Concerts are strange now. The screaming is lower-pitched, with all the little girls gone - Lance wouldn't have thought you'd be able to hear the difference, but you can. 

There are more older folks out there, too. Maybe now that they've started doing gospel numbers; everybody does gospel now. It actually surprises Lance how little their programs have changed, how easy it was to tweak the lyrics. It's the dancing that's changed the most - a lot more pointing up, a lot less moving their hips. Okay, maybe the dancing isn't even that different - it's the break. It's the break that does it. 

Justin makes the call at the break now - it's always Justin who makes the call. He was the first of the five of them, that very first night. And Joey right after, it was easy for Joey, he just wanted to see Briahna again. He stands on Justin's right, JC at Justin's left. Their arms are over his shoulders, Joey beaming out at the crowd, JC all earnest concern. Lance and Chris hang back tactfully - they dodge the issue in the press, too, and they've all agreed not to talk about it, or not more often than the Js can help. JC can't help looking over his shoulder, tonight, catching Lance's eye in the clear hope that this time he's going to join the crowd at the foot of the stage, or kneel down right there. 

"You could be a great example," Justin tells him, while they change costumes after the break, and Joey, like always, says then that it doesn't matter when or where or if anyone sees, and Justin smiles and agrees. And Lance thinks of Justin, calling that first day while they still sat in Joey's living room. Only a few minutes later, and his phone had rung. He's never been sure if it was relief in Justin's voice that Lance hadn't gone, or that he hadn't gone _either_. Lance tries hard not to think of that as the last time he talked to the real Justin. He sometimes even succeeds. But not during concerts. He's never more aware of it than during concerts; it almost seems wrong that they can still harmonize, still all count the same beats. 

IV. After the concert he and Chris retreat to their bus. Chris holds him tightly, lets him shake; Lance uncurls Chris's fingers where they bite into his palms and strokes his hands until they relax. They undress almost frantically, wanting all the costumes off. 

Chris sighs and stretches when he's naked, grins at Lance invitingly, and it's the same Chris face he's been making for years. Lance licks his collarbone, slides his tongue down over his heart. _It's not that it's so important_ , he had tried to explain to JC once, _it's that..._ he had fumbled for the words. The years of bullies calling him a choir fag, showing up to practice and singing around a fat lip, the way he had thanked God every night for his life and always felt he had Jesus in his heart like a diamond. _Oh Lance,_ JC says, and folds and refolds his hands in his lap. Lance knows he wants to reach out and can't, can't cup his cheek or stroke the back of his hand; he claps JC on the shoulder firmly and tells him it'll be okay, which is the stupidest lie ever. He's never tried to find words with Chris, why; it's been enough that this, his mouth around Chris's cock, is why not. Chris's hands pull at him, up, and Lance sees the avid fierceness in his eyes and thinks that he'll never kneel. Lance doesn't know, himself, if in the end, he's that strong, or that weak, he doesn't know any more. But Chris's fingers are urgent on him now, and the bus drives smoothly through the cool evening. 

So he drinks deeply of Chris's mouth because he knows he'll be thirsty later. Watches the blaze in his eyes because he knows there's darkness later. Rests in Chris's sturdy grip because he knows later things will collapse. Chris slides into him slowly, thrusts until he gasps, and it's rapture, but not the kind that could save him. 


End file.
